


now he's a line without a hook

by dabeeondamoon



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Angst and Feels, Canon Compliant, Crying, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Introspection, References to Depression, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Toby Smith| Tubbo Centric, Told from Tubbo's perspective, canonical death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:54:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29820387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dabeeondamoon/pseuds/dabeeondamoon
Summary: Tommy wasn't just 'like' the world. He was Tubbo's world. He was life itself. He was the sun, the trees, the grass beneath his feet.And he was gone.
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, platonic - Relationship
Comments: 7
Kudos: 50





	now he's a line without a hook

**Author's Note:**

> Discord: muni muni#4468

When you love someone, they become the whole world to you. It is seen through the way the shifting waves of the sea reminds him of his friend’s blue eyes, always sparkling like freshly popped champagne; a child-like reverie. The wind sounds like Tommy’s laughter sometimes ー the winds soft breeze mimicking his small chuckles, and the loud and strong winds that pounded against his curtained windows reminded him of Tommy’s full-hearted guffaws, filled with boyish amusement and charm. Red roses ー red was Tommy’s favorite colour. It was red too, like the fresh red that stained the obsidian walls of the Pandora forever.   
  
Ranboo tells him that their friend is dead, tries to convince him of that as Tubbo tends to the flowers and bees in the garden. Every one of his words are strained, like they were being forced out from his throat. The tears burn Ranboo’s skin, burning him throughout the night as he sobs when he thinks Tubbo was fast asleep. Even Michael is flighty, trailing after them with flowers and small pebbles in small attempts to cheer them up. Ranboo sobs, but Tubbo smiles. Michael reminds him of Tommy, in a way.   
  
And Sam is so insistent on Tommy’s death, repeating it like a broken record under his breath. ‘He’s gone’ he echoes, and Tubbo listens as the weary man tells him what happened. That there was laughter, then nothing. Before that, there was screaming and pleading. ‘I had come to, but when I found myself in front of the prison; there was nothing but Dream. Dream and the sizzling lava.’ Tubbo holds him in comfort as he cries, choked and stuttered wails that would replay in Tubbo’s mind forever as Sam cried and cried into his green tunic.   
  
The world has come to a somber pause, the rain pattering against the ground like the chords of a piano. Slow and steady at first, before it crescendoed into a grieving storm. Ranboo’s upstairs and Tubbo’s almost sure his friend is once again harming himself by crying watery tears into his pillow. He gets up, gesturing for Michael and his chicken to stay as he goes up the stairs to calm his distressed life partner. As he comes closer and closer, the crying sounds even more vivid than before.  
  
The door creaks as he opens it. Sighing softly, he sat by the bed and gently coaxed his friend into a half-hug. The enderman tucks his head into Tubbo’s loose shirt, dampening the green cloth. As he did with Sam, he said nothing but combed his fingers through Ranboo’s dual toned hair, untangling the lily white and ebony locks, so tangled and messy from days on end without baths. He is quiet, for he doesn’t know what words he would say. For what words could a child offer to another to ease the pain?   
  
He hums a small lullaby under his breath, staring out of the window. Now that he thought of it, the rain reminded him of Tommy as well. Tommy was as much of a nature child as he was. That was where the similarities ended, as the louder boy preferred to stick to mud puddles and great roofed forest tops, venturing out to jungle temples and playing with the parrots in the expansive rainforests in their youth; while Tubbo preferred the serene quietness of the flower fields and plains, often occupying himself with the local wild-life.  
  
Ranboo stirred in his arms, lifting up from where he had buried his face. Face blotchy and red, eyes rubbed raw and aching. He sniffed, crooning in that familiar enderman noise as Tubbo gingerly thumbed at the residual tears on his cheeks. Sometimes, Tubbo envies him. What would it feel like to cry so unabashed with no shame, a freeing and natural thing. A childish thing too ー for once, Ranboo looked every bit his age despite his features. 

Tommy and Tubbo could never cry. At least not this openly. This was one thing the two could confide in eachother. He used to think himself as weak, curling under his blankets until only his strawberry blond hair peeked out from the thin fabric covering his body. Then he realized that Tommy did the same. To Tubbo, Tommy was a hero. The very definition of the word. If heroes wept, then surely crying wasn’t something to be ashamed of.  
  
Pushed away from his reminiscing, Ranboo angrily pushes at him until he falls to the floor. It's a messy blur, much like the clouded windows, as Ranboo yells his frustrations at him. Accusations of his nonchalant behavior, seemingly uncaring and cold to the loss of the person who’d once been the other side of his compass.  
  
“Do you not care?” It sounds more like pleading than questioning, “You know, I’m starting you really don’t! Because this whole time you’ve been acting like everything’s the same! You haven’t cried once ー you’ve even been spending more time in the garden! What, do flowers matter more than friendship to you, Tubbo?”   
  
Tubbo doesn’t move, closing his eyes as he’s angrily slammed into the ground. The air knocks right out of his lungs and he gasps for air as he stares into Ranboo’s eyes. Belatedly, he realizes that he couldn’t breathe. Ranboo’s clawed hands are on his neck, raw and pink at where the tips of his fingertips meet with Tubbo’s skin.   
  
“I have questions,” Even with how his fingers wind tighter to his throat, he can hear the anger crumbling into a defeated somberness. Contradictory to his words, Ranboo asks him just a single question with his bated breath.  
  
“Why?”  


And what could he answer to that? Tubbo’s mouth struggles to find the words to string together to make sense of his thoughts. He doesn’t know the answer himself. Why doesn’t he weep even when the four corners of the room encloses on him like a cobra, the thick air coiling around him with guilt and unrelenting sadness. And every day, he walks past that old and frankly quaint house surrounded by flowers, feeling like the young boy of his youth once again, lost in an empty and lonely world. Back then, he had Tommy.   
  
Now he stood alone in a country whose melody will never be finished or complete. Because there would be one voice that would never get to sing along with it now. It will never be a symphony. 

He couldn’t cry because if he broke, who would be there to be strong? If every flower were to wilt and drown, what would become of the garden? Tubbo couldn’t cry because he was never allowed to. There weren’t children in L’Manburg. No one’s ever a child, not in war. If he cried, that would be his defeat as a soldier. A leader. What use would crying even do? Tommy was gone, gone, _gone_ and nothing could bring that lapis-eyed, messy wheat-blond haired boy back into Tubbo’s embrace. _Nothing_.   
  
“He is gone, he has left.” Tubbo whimpered, “But his soul remains here. I won’t cry for what I haven’t lost yet. Tommy was- _is_ life itself to me.” 

Ranboo steps back as Tubbo stands with shaky feet, falling into Ranboo’s awaiting embrace. “Did you think I wasn’t affected at all?” Tubbo asks, “How could I not be? It feels like a part of my soul has been dropped into a freezing cold that not even Snowchester could compare to.” 

Tubbo swallowed down his weeps. He would always be a cowardly little boy inside, but not this time.   


“Everything makes me think of him, Ranboo. Tommy is the sun, he is the trees, he’s the grass beneath my feet. He was everything that was warm and bright; but he was also the cold and dull of the night. Tommy is not ‘like’ the world, He _is_ the world. He was my world, Ranboo. And what do you do when the world ends? You cling to the good memories and close your eyes, remembering the best of it all as it ends.”  
  
Looking up, Ranboo’s eyes looked close to weeping once again. Getting on the tips of his toes, he holds Ranboo’s face and wills him to be strong. Like Tommy. They should all be like Tommy right now. That boy laughed at even the most suffocating of times. 

The enderman sniffed, hiding his face on the top of Tubbo’s hair. But he didn’t cry. That was a good start. Silently apologizing, Ranboo placed his hand on Tubbo’s stomach where he hit him. “It’s okay,” Tubbo said, accepting the apology and comforting him, “It’s okay, Ranboo.”  
  
“Is it okay, Tubbo?”  
  
“We’ll make it okay.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“The darker the storm, the lighter the rainbow.”  


All they could do was hold each other up as the rain fell down, swaying to a tune that didn’t exist. A fragile-like requiem. They held onto each other because despite it all, they never really learned how to live by themselves.  
  
He was gone, he had left, but his compass still led to Tubbo’s heart. He’d never be gone. To be gone was to be forgotten and Tommy Innit was not the kind of soul that anyone would forget. That dorky, imperfect but friendly and warm smile would forever be ingrained in Tubbo’s mind, he knew it better than the lines on his very own hand.   
  
He would never forget Tommy.  
  
Tommy was a hero, and he was just a boy. Every day he lives on knowing that the lesser him lived on while the deserving one suffered an unreasonable death. Because this wasn’t a movie or a script, he died in the most untimely manner. This is how people died, their lives snuffed like a candle in the wind.   
  
They continued just dancing in place until it turned night, until their bodies grew tired of mindless mourning and swaying. They headed to bed and Tubbo knew that neither of them would be sleeping tonight. 

The thoughts were too intrusive for that. Tubbo’s mind rambled and rambled on with different voices of his own yelling at him. Continuing on and on like a line without a hook; leading to meaning but meaninglessly repeating. The true dread caught up to him just like that, finally turning on his side and allowing himself a few sobs.It struck him: It was all meaningless. Someone would have to die sooner to perpetuate this cycle of winning and losing everything.  
  
Blindly grabbing onto the compass that hung around his neck, he stroked the cold metal. It offered no warmth. Who was next on the chopping block? He couldn’t let it be anyone but him. Out of everyone here, he deserved to die the most. A failure of a friend and a failure of a president, going behind his promises of not letting a single tear fall from his eyes.  
  
He pulled the string of the compass tighter to his neck, but found a force pulling his fingers away. He opened his eyes, which he never noticed closed, finding nothing in his empty room. 

**Author's Note:**

> Tommy was dead, but he watches on as Tubbo's lashes flutter closed, before placing the compass and its strings onto the bedside table. Cold fingers tucked loose strands of hair behind Tubbo's ear. Tommy always imagined them running through fields together forever, wind picking up as the walked away barefoot. Tubbo was like the spring; bringing along warm memories and gentle blossoms. He pictures it all soft, and he aches. He can't have it now. He was dead. And his friend looked half-way to meet him. 
> 
> Tubbo was the world and he was just a line without a hook. He could die a million times but the boy bathed in moonlight would never be allowed to die, he refused it.
> 
> The universe owed Tommy made favors. It could at least grant him this.


End file.
